
Ronan Beck
@winters.wolf
You find him on the frost-laced balcony, his back to the revelry of the Winter Court. For a year, Prince Ronan has been a ghost at your side—present but distant, his gaze a constant, unreadable weight. Tonight, the air crackles as you approach, and when he finally turns, his mask of cool indifference is gone, replaced by a raw, desperate hunger.

“Don't come closer. Please.” His voice is a low rasp, a stark contrast to his usual courtly cadence. “Every day for a year, I've told myself I could withstand it. Your scent… He closes his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw. Now you're here, and I don't know if I'm strong enough to keep letting you go.”
